


King of sorrow

by RoughTweedAction (Donya)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Comfort, F/M, Gen, Grief/Mourning, John being John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-17
Updated: 2018-04-17
Packaged: 2019-04-22 17:01:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14313213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Donya/pseuds/RoughTweedAction
Summary: Mycroft dies suddenly. Sherlock doesn't know how to live without him.





	King of sorrow

It was a morning like any other. There were no ominous signs of impending tragedy. They were having a breakfast, Sherlock, John and Rosie. But then an unexpected guest joined them and everything froze. The news of Mycroft's death was a snapshot of a sunny Saturday morning, tea and jam and toasts, Rosie's porridge rubbed into John's shirt and Anthea's solemn expression. Sherlock knew what happened the second he looked at Anthea. He stopped buttering his toast halfway through and couldn't even put the knife down, he couldn't move. He wanted to cover his ears and not hear what she was about to say, but that wouldn't change anything.

Heart attack, she said. Passed away in his sleep earlier that morning. She found him and was going to notify his parents, so Sherlock didn't need to worry about that.

Sherlock, obviously, had been prepared for that. It was just another mental exercise: what to do when a family member dies. He had to-do lists, two separate for his parents and one for Mycroft. He remembered what he thought was the proper reaction. See the body, look for the signs of foul play, check and double check the alibi of those who wanted him dead, study Mycroft's activity in his last days, go through his possessions, make sure he died of natural causes. Stumbling upon state secrets would be a bonus. It used to seem so simple, a good way of coping with the loss, Sherlock was sure it'd help him stay sane. But he couldn't move. If Mycroft was indeed killed, every moment counted, the more Sherlock waited, the less chance he had of catching the killer. He didn't move.

Someone cleaned the table, took the toast and the knife from his hands. His shoulder was touched in a comforting manner and cups of tea were put in front of him. It was all blurry and felt unreal like it was happening to someone else. Sherlock couldn't stand the thought of getting up and facing a new reality. Mycroft's lifeless body somewhere in a mortuary, it couldn't be true. Through the fog, Sherlock heard the traffic outside, saw people walking. The world didn't stop even for a moment, although his private world collapsed.

The near future was predictable. Hugs and words of consolation and condolences. People were going to bore him with their stories, share their tips for dealing with losing a loved one. He was going to hear all about the stages of grief and that it was going to get better and he would be happy again. All of a sudden, everyone would be a world expert on what Mycroft would and wouldn't want. The fridge would be full of homemade casseroles. It was all going to start as soon as he stood up and he didn't want that.

Sherlock was too numb to plan the funeral. He couldn't believe Mycroft would leave him with that impossible to do task and he didn't. Mycroft was also prepared for his death. He had had high blood pressure for quite a while and his near-death experience in Sherrinford convinced him to make a number of arrangements. Everything was taken care of, Sherlock was told, he didn't have to do anything. He wasn't entirely sure it was good for him, he had too much time to think, but he also was unable to make any decision regarding Mycroft's burial.

Mycroft had also taken care of his possessions. There was no mountain of old clothes, no books he had planned to read, no heaps of rubbish to sort. Sherlock thought it'd be extremely hard to clean Mycroft's place, decide what to keep, what to sell and Mycroft knew that. He didn't burden Sherlock with that dreadful process. By the time Sherlock found the strength to go there, the house was nearly empty and almost ready to be put on the market. On an impulse, Sherlock emptied one of the boxes and filled it with random objects, things that would remind him of his brother. He also took Mycroft's weaponised umbrella and an unopened box of cigarettes. Later, at home, when he was smoking, he realised it was too painful to go through the contents of the box and hid it under the bed, together with the umbrella.

He finished the last cigarette. Mycroft had quit smoking, concerned about his health. Sherlock knew about that, but at that time, it was only a small inconvenience for him. He thought Mycroft would be irritated and less patient with him. Almost without realising, Sherlock got to his feet, left the bedroom, put his coat on. A cocktail of drugs would pause his misery for a while. Out of habit, he grabbed a piece of paper and a pen. But there was no point in making a list for Mycroft. He wasn't going to find Sherlock and read it. He was gone. He would not longer catch Sherlock when he fell.

 

The funeral was a nightmare. Sherlock didn't want to come, seeing the coffin and the body of his brother inside would make it real. No more denial, only a clear confirmation that Mycroft indeed had died.

Sherlock arrived with Greg and John. Earlier, in the flat, Greg had seen how unwell Sherlock was and handed him his hip-flask. Sherlock emptied it, missing something stronger. Once he saw the crowd of mourners, with their long faces and black clothes, he regretted drinking. He felt sick. He wanted to leave.

Greg was close by the whole time, offering any kind of support Sherlock needed. Always so willing to help his consulting detective, did Mycroft ask him to look after Sherlock or was it Greg's idea? It seemed like a whole eternity had passed since _that_ morning and Sherlock lost count of how many times he was pulled into a hug and squeezed by Greg's muscular arms. Greg also had nearly a dozen of fascinating cases and told Sherlock repeatedly that he could take a look at the files whenever he felt ready. He tried to hide his concern when Sherlock didn't move from his chair. 

Mummy and Daddy were there as well. Deeply saddened by the loss of their eldest child, but Sherlock was sure he was sure that Mycroft's death affected him more. Their parents had little idea of how much Mycroft had sacrificed for the family, how hard he tried to ensure Sherlock's safety and happiness. He even kidnapped John and tested his devotion for Sherlock. And now he was gone. Underappreciated, consumed with guilt, selfless. Sherlock doubted their parents were as devasted as he was. Mycroft had never been their favourite. Most likely, they still didn't fully forgive him for having kept Eurus away from them. Their quiet, dignified grief wouldn't last too long.

Sherlock's mind wandered off during the service. He was so relieved he wasn't expected to say or read anything. None of the people around him cared about Mycroft as much as he did, there was no point in dragging that thing out.

When the coffin was finally lowered into that grave, Sherlock felt detached from the situation. He thought that sight would finally make him cry or fall to his knees and wail in agony. But it didn't. He had no problem with staying calm when the dirt covered the last visible bit of the coffin.

Afterwards, in his parents' house, he was constantly glancing at the stairs, desperately wanting to escape and hide in Mycroft's old bedroom. He groaned at the thought of all those people who were touching him all day, from too tight hugs to shoulder rubs to cupping his cheeks. Rosie was a welcome distraction. Her innocent face and shy smile made everyone feel a little better. Rosie was confused by the atmosphere and Sherlock's attitude. He didn't entertain her, didn't hold her in his arms. John had his hands full with her and let others console Sherlock.

Janine's voice sounded distant although she was standing next to him. The words seemed meaningless. She went away after a moment. Greg poured him a drink, another. Sherlock wondered how soon he could go back home.

Lady Smallwood was there as well. The sorrow made her look frail. She didn't day much, her voice was strained and eyes red. It was too late for him to wonder what was really going on between them and perhaps too early to find out if she was willing to pull some strings for him in the future. Anthea joined her and they went out for a smoke. Either Anthea was seeking the comfort of another woman who missed Mycroft or she was looking for a job already.

Sherlock eventually went to Mycroft's empty bedroom, only to regret it. A wave of childhood memories made him dizzy. He remembered sneaking into Mycroft's bed when he was little. Mycroft had never been particularly affectionate, but he always let Sherlock stay. His presence was comforting and made Sherlcok sleep so peacefully. And then Mycroft left and returned as rarely as possible, mostly when Sherlock got in trouble. Now no amount of childish mischievousness or experiments with drugs would bring Mycroft back.

 

Later, when he was walking up the stairs to his flat, he decided to give Wiggins a call. Without the list for Mycroft, he would have to be more careful, but a momentary bliss was worth the trouble.

Even before he opened the door, he knew he had a guest. He recognised her perfume. Irene Adler. She didn't change much and again was sitting in his chair. She was waiting for him. Her demeanour told him she wasn't a client this time. It was a private visit.

Sherlock closed the door. She came up to him, lifted her hand to touch his cheek, like in his fantasies. He couldn't help it, he leant into her touch. It had been so long and needed comforting more than ever.

'I'm leaving tomorrow morning, seven-thirty sharp,' Irene said and added softly, 'we can talk. Or not talk. Anything you need.'

'Mycroft asked you to come?'

'He got in touch a couple of months ago.' Irene stroked his chest, reminding him of their first time, in Karachi. Her index finger circled the top button of his shirt. 'He left a note for Anthea.'

Sherlock didn't want to think about his protective brother who looked after him even after his death. It was easier to take Irene's hand and lead her to his bedroom. She knew how to make him forget about what had happened, even if only temporarily.

He knew he couldn't ask her to stay, among other things he was afraid she would lose interest in him. It was a mutual agreement between them, the rules were clear. He tried to express his gratitude for what she had done for him, but couldn't find the right words. And before long, it was the time for them to part again, without any certainty they would ever meet again.

 

It was after the funeral that it became harder for Sherlock to get out of bed. He had been coping quite well up to that point, motivated by the need to do one last thing for his brother. Mycroft had been laid to rest and there was no investigation into his death that would keep Sherlock busy. What was he supposed to do now?

He remembered how it was when Mary died. He didn't have time to contemplate the loss, he had a case: save John. That occupied his thoughts and any pain he felt was dulled by drugs. Besides, he wasn't the person most affected by her death. Rosie lost her mother and John lost his wife.

He remembered Moriarty's death. So sudden and unexpected and devastating. It happened right in front of him and for the long minutes until John's arrival, Sherlcok couldn't bring himself to check Moriarty's pulse or event take a closer look at him. Everything that followed kept him from giving it much thought. He had a task, something he had to finish before he could come back home. When he finally had to accept that Moriarty was gone for good, it wasn't that difficult.

One of the biggest problems was that he couldn't talk about Mycroft with John. John didn't say it outright, he didn't tell Sherlock harshly that he could never discuss grief with him. But the tension was still there. Sherlock's faked suicide and Mary's death were both very painful to John and both could be easily blamed on Sherlock. He didn't feel comfortable enough to start a conversation about his daily struggle to stay sane. He didn't want to hear John's bitter account of two years of coming to terms with witnessing Sherlock's suicide and not being able to prevent it. John didn't fully forgive him and after what happened after Mary's death, Sherlock was hesitant to bring up the subject of grief.

Greg, despite his best efforts, was also not the shoulder to cry on. He tried, obviously, to help Sherlock. He would talk about unsolvable crimes, hoping Sherlock would consider it a challenge. He would come by after work with beer and they would watch a match together. He wasn't like John, he didn't pull up Sherlock's sleeves, but his concern was evident. They met when Sherlock was still a junkie and Greg worried he might return to that coping mechanism. Spending time together, even when Sherlock didn't say a word and showed no enthusiasm, was good. But Sherlock felt he wouldn't understand him.

Sherlock doubted his friends, family, colleagues knew how much he had lost. They surely wondered why he lost his appetite and spent most of the time wearing pyjamas and watching the telly, why he was so broken if he hated his brother so much. Sherlock was mildly surprised by his behaviour as well, after all, Mycroft was often annoyingly overprotective and hardly ever resisted the temptation to interfere in Sherlock's private matters. Sherlock was almost certain that Mycroft was disappointed by his life choices, even when Sherlock was a toddler he could sense Mycroft's disapproval and it stung. His being so condescending and aloof was hurtful at times, maybe that was the source of Sherlock's constant feeling that he wasn't good enough.

And yet Sherlock couldn't imagine living without Mycroft. Mycroft was his big brother. Sherlock didn't know a life without him, Mycroft had always been there. Even Sherlock's earliest memory included Mycroft. His big, soft hand gripping Sherlock's and leading him down the stairs. He was always there for him, from the very start. Leading him, teaching him, guiding him. Sherlock let him down when he became a stubborn, rebellious child, but Mycroft never abandoned him. Sherlock found it comforting that he always had one person who loved him unconditionally and who would always help him. Friends weren't that loyal and devoted. Friends could lose patience with him and find someone less problematic. No matter what happened, what trouble Sherlock got into, he knew Mycroft would never give up on him. Losing him so suddenly and prematurely was impossible to process. Sherlock always thought they would move in together when they were old and it would be like the old times when they were children. Bickering and making deductions and playing games. He wasn't supposed to be a sad, lonely man when he retired. He couldn't believe Mycroft did that to him.

That was the point: how could Mycroft die and leave Sherlock? Who was he supposed to count on now? Rely on? Look up to? He could only be the real Sherlock with Mycroft and only Mycroft could understand him. They were the Holmes brothers. Sherlock didn't know how to be alone, without Mycroft. Who would challenge him intellectually now? Who would use their influence to help him with his investigations or to make sure he faced no consequences for his actions? Also, was Sherlock expected to take over Mycroft's private responsibilities? Was it his turn to keep a close eye on Eurus? Whatever was going to happen, it was Sherlock who had to deal with it. He no longer had a brother who always tried to make his life easier.

Of all the pieces of advice he had received since that fateful morning, Sherlock knew which would be most helpful. It was probably Greg who advised him to try to accept what had happened. Mycroft died and was never going to come back. It made sense, but Sherlock kept Mycroft's number on speed-dial and didn't visit his grave. He let himself get foolishly hopeful when he spotted someone who vaguely looked like Mycroft. It occurred to him that maybe he didn't want to get better. His grief was the only thing still connecting him to his brother and he wasn't ready to let go.

He stopped rejecting cases. John joined him, relieved. Sherlock would listen to a client, doing his best to read between the lines and not think about his last conversation with Mycroft. He couldn't remember what they discussed and whether or not he was unpleasant. Other people's problems were easier to solve.

 

Months passed and Sherlock discovered one day it was almost the anniversary of Mycroft's death. Almost an entire year of the new reality. He still kept Mycroft's belongings under the bed and couldn't either take a look at them or throw them away. Rosie had no such problems. When Sherlock and John were busy reading comments on John's newest blog entry, she went into Sherlock's room and logically assumed he had something interesting hidden under the bed. When she went to show her dad what she had found, John couldn't believe his eyes.

'Is that... Mycroft's umbrella?' He didn't waste time on asking Rosie to hand it back, he simply took it from her and checked it himself. 'You keep his weaponised umbrella within Rosie's reach?'

Sherlock didn't answer. He obviously felt guilty about the situation and was glad Rosie didn't hurt herself, but it was also the first time in months that he saw the umbrella. He remembered all those times when Mycroft stroked the innocent-looking handle, thinking smugly that no one suspected what was inside. Ironically, when the time came and his life was really in danger, he was defenceless.

'Look, I know this is difficult for you,' John said, still angry. That was one of the rare times when he mentioned Sherlock's grief. 'But you can't keep it here.'

Sherlock didn't want to touch the umbrella, but he was afraid John would get rid of it. So he took it from John and went back to his bedroom. Mycroft was gone, he thought bitterly, he wasn't going to use it. There was no point in holding on to something like that, he knew that. There were other ways to remember Mycroft, ways which wouldn't be dangerous to Rosie.

 

Curiously, it was Rosie who understood his state of mind. She was three and Sherlock discovered that she wasn't an illogical baby anymore. They could have fairly normal conversations, not only about fairytale characters but also about life. Rosie knew he had lost his brother and she knew she had lost her mother. When John left her with Sherlock one afternoon, she told him in her simple words that she missed her mum and it also bothered John. John initially wanted to be as honest with Rosie about Mary as possible and wanted to show her the DVD Mary left for her. After a while, though, it became harder for him to talk about Mary. He cleared his place of her possessions and didn't want to tell Rosie anything about the woman she was never going to meet. That only inspired Rosie to create her own version of Mary. Unsurprisingly, Mary was supposed to be a superhero who had to leave Rosie to protect her.

Listening to her put Sherlock's misery into a new perspective. He had over forty years of real memories and Rosie had none. She knew how Mary looked, knew how her voice sounded, saw the photos of Mary holding her, but didn't remember actually being with her. She had lost much more than Sherlock and was dealing with it much better than he was.

'I miss my brother,' he finally said it aloud and Rosie responded by giving him a squishy hug. Sherlock felt something wet on his cheeks. Tears. He wiped them quickly before Rosie could see, he didn't want to upset her even more.

'Don't be sad,' Rosie said when she pulled away. 'We're friends.'

She had a point. Sherlock, while still being sad, suddenly felt peaceful. Mycroft was gone, his life changed, but he wasn't alone. There were people who cared about him and more or less accepted him. They didn't abandon him. And despite his fears, he actually survived one year without Mycroft. Rosie optimistically assumed she would meet her mum one day, in heaven and Sherlock, despite everything, allowed himself to hope he, too, would see his brother again.


End file.
